


A Foregone Conclusion

by linndechir



Category: Fast & Furious 6 (2013), Fast and the Furious Series, Furious 7 (2015)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Barebacking, Breathplay, Fight Sex, First Time, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Pre-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-05-05 18:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5385572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/pseuds/linndechir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'd played this game for years, heated fights in the early morning hours that left them both bruised and breathless, but Deckard had always pulled back in time, as if he knew what would happen if he didn't. Until his hands lingered for too long one night, and Owen had grown tired of waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Foregone Conclusion

He woke from the pressure of cold steel against his throat, the sharp edge of a knife grazing his skin, and his body reacted instantly before his mind could even process the situation. Twisted the threatening wrist to the side, then brought one knee up to slam it into his attacker's side and push him off.

All of that before he had time to wonder how the hell anyone had managed to get past his security, his traps, his alarms, the rest of his team, and _into his bed_ without him noticing. Before he had time to realise that there was only one man in the world who could have achieved that in absolute silence, time to acknowledge that this man could have slit his throat without ever letting him wake up, and that the only reason he was still alive was because he'd been allowed to push that knife away from his throat.

A fair fighting chance, as far as anyone ever had a chance against Deckard Shaw. 

Owen kept a firm hold on Deckard's wrist to keep the knife at bay, used the one moment in which Deckard gasped for breath to flip them over – and off the bed. Crashing down on top of his brother broke Owen's fall and he managed to twist the knife from Deckard's hand, but even as the blade clattered onto the smooth, cold floor, Deckard flipped them over again, his thighs pinning Owen's legs down as effortlessly as if he was besting a mere recruit. The few inches Owen had on his brother had never helped him much, not only because Deckard brought a lot more bulk to the fight. Owen was a highly trained soldier who could beat just about any man if he put his mind to it. But Deckard, well, Deckard was a weapon.

Owen still managed to punch his brother hard enough in the side to make Deckard recoil with a low groan, but before he could turn that into an actual advantage Deckard had a hand on his throat and pinned him down. The rough fabric of Deckard's fingerless gloves – military-issue, Owen's mind registered – would leave scratch marks on Owen's throat, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He struggled for a moment, considered another punch – one of his hands was still free, as Deckard well knew – but he decided to call it quits. He had a mission coming up in two days, and every time they took their fights further than this, one or both of them ended up with more than just a few bruises, and Owen didn't need that right now. Not to mention that not wanting to cripple each other limited both of them quite a bit in their repertoire of dirty tricks.

He met Deckard's eyes for the first time that night, as dark as his own in the dim light, wild and filled with an excitement that didn't fit what had been nothing but a harmless kerfuffle for both of them. Deckard never looked like this when he actually killed people – not that Owen had often had the pleasure of seeing that in person, just often enough to know that Deckard's eyes were cold when he was working, and there was only ever heat in them on the rare occasions that someone presented him with an actual challenge. Owen had never been a challenge for Deckard, at least not in hand-to-hand combat, and yet his brother was breathing as heavily as if he'd run up a mountain in full combat gear. 

His weight was oddly familiar on top of Owen, but then they had been playing this game for a long time. Not that it had started out as a game – back when Owen had been a child, after Deckard had left and joined the military, he'd sometimes fallen asleep alone and woken up with his brother's warmth curled against him. Sneaking back in when he came home on leave, just like he'd always done, quiet as a shadow; lanky still the first time it had happened, but growing broader and stronger with every return, and back then he'd never minded Owen's hands slipping underneath his shirt to retrace the lines of his muscles. It had stopped being that comfortable the first time Owen had woken up with his cock hard and pressed against Deckard's abs, the touch more intimate than anything he'd felt before at his young age, with nothing but his thin pyjama bottoms between them. Nothing unusual about a teenager's morning wood, but Deckard had frowned at him and pulled away, like he was somehow disappointed.

That's when their game had started, Deckard still sneaking in, but instead of simply slotting himself into Owen's bed he'd wake him with a hand on his throat or a painful grip on his hair. It had been a pitifully unequal fight for years, but those early morning hours had been when Deckard had taught Owen most of the fighting skills he'd acquired before he was old enough to enlist himself, and it turned out that Deckard was quite a good teacher when he set his mind to it. Taught Owen how to break free when someone held him down, how to punch and kick in ways that hurt his opponent without injuring himself, how to fight dirty. Half the time they fell asleep together afterwards, sweaty and, in Owen's case at least, breathless and worn out. It didn't really change anything about Owen waking up hard in his brother's arms, but somehow after that first time Deckard had taken to ignoring it. Owen returned the favour half the time and pressed back against him the other half, and they'd both somehow managed to pretend there was nothing to that: Deckard's breath cool against the sweat on Owen's neck, his cock pressed against his brother's arse for a minute or five before he'd get up to take a shower. Never longer than that, and Owen had learnt quickly to keep his hands to himself and not try his luck, because all that ever accomplished was to drive Deckard out of bed earlier. 

Deckard had kept up his habit of breaking into Owen's sleeping quarters throughout their years in the SAS, though it had been a much rarer occurrence then. They hadn't seen each other nearly as often as they would have liked in those ten years – usually deployed in different corners of the world, and even as Owen rose through the ranks he wasn't privy to the kind of classified information like where the British military sent their top assassin. But Deckard's leave brought him invariably to whatever sandy arsehole of the world Owen was stuck in, and they'd trashed more than a few tents and barracks over the years in what had long turned from lessons into sparring matches – some of them rougher, leaving them bleeding and in need of a trip to a paramedic in the morning, others more like this, playing around like they'd grown bored with pretending that this was anything other than an excuse to touch. It happened more and more often now that they had both left the fold, now that they had no superiors left to tell them where to go and when. Even when Deckard had business to take care of, it rarely took him more than a few weeks to show up again.

Owen liked it. Though there were a few things he missed about the SAS, he mostly enjoyed his new freedom and his considerably increased wealth, and what he enjoyed most was not having to wait months at a time to see that look in Deckard's eyes. 

“Your security is shit,” Deckard said finally. He shifted his weight until his knee pressed painfully into Owen's thigh. His fingers still maintained their grip on Owen's throat, digging in just a little. Owen felt acutely aware of every single sensation, of every sound and every shift in the air around him, the way he only ever did in a fight or a fast car. There was a scratchy callous on Deckard's thumb right where it pressed against his jawline, and he felt his pulse hammering against it as if his body wanted to bleed over Deckard's fingers.

“My security is excellent. I actually thought you wouldn't get past it this time.” Owen shook his head minutely, but it didn't take more than that for Deckard to tighten his grip. It was one of the many things he'd learnt over the years – that struggling only made Deckard grab him harder. It was as controlled as every movement his brother ever made, that slight tightening of his fingers around Owen's throat, not enough to choke him, but enough to make him aware of every breath he took, aware of every breath Deckard _let_ him take.

“You would've been disappointed if I hadn't.” Deckard's voice would have sounded casual if not for its slight breathlessness, as if the heat between their bodies wasn't unbearable, as if Owen wasn't baring his throat like he was begging for more.

“True. You'll have to tell me how you got in after we're done.” That was maybe the best part about their new life, the days spent in whatever base Owen had picked for his current job, poring over maps and plans, finding weak spots to exploit in their target. Deckard technically wasn't part of Owen's team, he enjoyed not having to take orders anymore far too much for that, but they had still found their ways of working together every now and then.

It could wait, though. Talking was getting hard under the pressure of Deckard's palm, though that wasn't the only reason his mind couldn't stay on the question of how Deckard had managed to bypass his security this time.

Owen's usually reliable inner clock was failing him, he could only measure time in his own laboured breaths, synchronised almost with Deckard's breathing. His leg was starting to feel numb, but the last thing he wanted was to lose the steady weight pinning him down. Each breath made him more aware of his brother's touch, the warmth of his body, his familiar smell.

The moment came when Deckard should have pulled back and pretended that this was business as usual. He always pulled back in time, as if he knew what would happen if he didn't. But the moment came and passed, and Deckard's hand still lingered on Owen's throat while he looked at him like a starved man.

“Take the gloves off,” Owen said eventually when Deckard still didn't move, surprised at how firm the words still sounded. Like an order, and he didn't miss the flash of amusement in Deckard's eyes. He still obeyed – one, two breaths later. Rocked back on his heels in a smooth motion, and the loss of his touch almost ached more than the sharp pressure of his knee. For a heartbeat Owen wondered if Deckard was putting an end to this after all, but his brother's eyes never left his.

Deckard opened the wrist strap of the first glove with his teeth, so slowly that it gave Owen a few moments to imagine those teeth buried in his skin. He took his time peeling the glove off his hand like this was some kind of striptease, but there was nothing deliberately enticing about it; it reminded Owen more of a predator stripping off every pretence that he'd ever been tamed. The glove dropped to the floor with a soft thud, and Deckard took the second one off in the same way. Unfaltering eye contact. Teeth. Rough hands finally bared. Deckard shrugged out of his jacket as well, revealing a grey tshirt and a bandage wrapped around one forearm – a deep cut from his last mission that Owen had stitched up himself. Owen curled his fingers around it, tightly, enough to see the slight wince on Deckard's face when Owen pulled him closer.

Deckard's right hand found Owen's throat again as if drawn to it, and this time there was no fabric between them, just that warm, steady touch, heavy and tender the way a knife is gentle before a mercy kill. Deckard's thumb pressed hard into the hollow underneath Owen's chin to force his head back, and Owen hissed in appreciation while he bared his neck.

For a moment Deckard hesitated, like he didn't know what to do with so blatant an invitation – it wasn't like Owen to ask so directly for something instead of merely implying that he wanted it, but years of waiting had taught him that subtlety got him nowhere when it came to this. He dug his finger into Deckard's arm, would have dug his nails into the cut itself if not for the bandage, held on to it until Deckard made up his mind and straddled him, and the warmth of his brother's thighs against his sides made Owen feel almost dizzy. 

One, two, five breaths before Deckard's fingers closed around Owen's neck, increasing the pressure steadily until breathing became hard, painful, and then, from one heartbeat to the next, impossible. It took mere seconds for Owen's chest to start to ache, and the choked sounds that left his throat as he tried to breathe in sounded so pathetic that he would have been ashamed of them at any other time, but not when it was his brother's hand wringing them from him. He gasped hungrily for air in those brief moments Deckard granted him before he increased the pressure again, and thought, somewhere in the back of his mind, that there probably should have been an element of fear, of primal panic to all of this, no matter how much he trusted his brother, but he knew what Deckard's eyes looked like when he was about to kill someone. 

This was something else entirely.

He was rock hard by the time Deckard loosened his grip enough to let him breathe freely, his palm still pressed against Owen's throat. He knew Deckard had noticed – there was no way he hadn't while straddling Owen. But he didn't move away, just stroked Owen's throat with his thumb while Owen gulped down one breath after the other. And because Deckard Shaw could always be counted on to be a bastard, he didn't leave it at that, but raked his thumbnail so hard over Owen's sensitised throat that Owen almost thought he'd drawn blood, and the precious air he'd just drawn in left his lungs in a moan.

Deckard's second hand joined the first, encircling Owen's neck from both sides. Owen didn't think he would have felt more aroused if those same hands had been wrapped around his cock instead, but then his brother's touch had always made something short-circuit in his brain.

“You sure you know what you're doing, little brother?” Deckard's voice was low, as if they were boys again, whispering in the dark of their room so as not to wake their father. And for all that he tried for mocking, the look in his eyes was too intense, too serious. He was leaning forward until their faces almost touched, thumbs digging into Owen's bruised throat.

Owen forced himself to stay still even though he wanted nothing more than to rub up against Deckard, but he still allowed a small smirk to creep onto his face.

“I'm not doing anything,” he said, in that fake innocent tone that hadn't worked on his brother since Owen had been four and, according to Deckard, already full of shit.

“We both know that's not true.” His hands barely moved now, stayed where they were while Owen still clung to his forearm and then raised his other hand to the back of Deckard's neck. There was a moment of resistance before Deckard let himself be pulled closer until his nose almost brushed against Owen's. 

“Like you'd ever do anything you don't want to, D,” Owen said and dug his nails into Deckard's neck, smiled at the sharp intake of breath that got him. Deckard's right hand slid down a few inches until he could press his thumb into the hollow of Owen's throat, and there was something so possessive in that touch that Owen couldn't bite back a groan. He swallowed hard to gather himself before he added, “But just so we're perfectly clear, I _am_ going to kill you if you stop now.”

Deckard barked out a short laugh, and he was so close that Owen could feel the way it vibrated in his chest. He probably should have been offended that Deckard didn't take his threat seriously, but then they both knew it wasn't. And in that moment Owen also knew without a doubt that he wouldn't have needed a threat in the first place.

Deckard moved as fast as in a fight, one hand fisting into Owen's shirt, the other staying on his throat, and he yanked Owen up with him in the same motion when he jumped to his feet. Owen's hand went to Deckard's shoulder for support while he tried to find his footing but, before he could catch his breath, Deckard's lips were on his in a bruising kiss.

Just like earlier that night Owen's mind had trouble catching up with what was happening even while he returned the kiss every bit as roughly. He'd wanted this – subconsciously for a long time, more and more consciously as he grew older – for most of his life, a filthy dream he'd liked to indulge in when his brother was away, and he'd never been quite sure if it was a foregone conclusion that it would be fulfilled one day, or if they'd never get past those close calls in the morning hours. Because there were some things even Owen could not demand quite as easily, some things even he couldn't risk.

His teeth caught on Deckard's bottom lip, an invitation to bite him back that his brother accepted immediately, his fingers tightening once more around Owen's throat. Owen gasped into his mouth, and this time Deckard held on to him for long enough that black dots started dancing in front of Owen's eyes while his brother kissed his lips bloody. He felt like a drowning man, breathless in the dark and yet ecstatic, and Deckard only yanked him out of the water when he shoved Owen down onto the bed.

Owen touched his throat gingerly, felt himself smile as he looked up at Deckard standing in front of the bed. He hadn't imagined the sweet tang of blood in his mouth, there was a small cut on his lip that Owen tongued curiously. Deckard looked taller in the dark, his posture tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Someone who didn't know him well might have mistaken his tenseness for anger, but Owen could see that his brother was simply holding back. Like he had all those other times when they'd danced so close to the line, those _almosts_ when he'd always pulled back before giving in. Owen had tired of letting him.

“Are you done already?” he said, and his voice sounded more hoarse than he would have expected. There was just enough light in the room for him to see the sharp lines of Deckard's chest under his tight-fitting shirt. He sat up, back straight, his legs spread easily in a clear invitation, and curled his fingers under Deckard's belt-buckle. Tugged a little, and this time the words came out firmer than before, “Come here.”

Back when he'd been given his first command, he'd felt a thrill every time his orders were obeyed, and while the shine had rubbed off a long time ago, he felt that same thrill now when Deckard knelt on the bed between his legs. Bent over Owen and raised his arms obediently when Owen divested him of his shirt. There would have been a time when the sight of his brother's body would have been more of a novelty – in those years after he'd lost the implicit permission to touch him whenever he wanted –, but he'd patched Deckard up often enough over the last year, since they didn't have army medics for that anymore, and he'd committed every sharp line of his body to memory long before this night. His fingers still felt a little unsteady when they found Deckard's chest, nails raking over it tentatively until he felt Deckard shudder and repeated the same movement with more force.

“Are you going to turn this into a fight again?” Deckard asked softly, his voice rough in the silence, his forehead leaning against Owen's, and one of his hands had returned to Owen's throat like he wasn't quite sure where else to put them.

“Did you expect me to lie back and think of England like the men you usually fuck?” Their eyes met, Owen quietly admitting that he'd watched Deckard more than once, Deckard acknowledging that he had known anyway – that he had let himself be watched when every man he fucked shared at least a vague resemblance with his brother.

“I don't think they were thinking of anything by the time I was done with them,” he replied dryly. His hands finally moved, slid ever so slowly over Owen's shoulders, his arms, his sides. Owen hadn't thought that simple a touch could make him shudder.

“They certainly weren't thinking of _you_ ,” and Owen grabbed Deckard's chin with those words, forced him to keep looking at him before he kissed him again. It wasn't that he'd never kissed a man before, he had, but it had been long enough ago and forgettable enough – nothing but teenage confusion and wondering whether wanting his brother made him gay, before he'd realised that his brother was the exception rather than the rule – that the rough scratch of Deckard's stubble still took him by surprise, but he loved it as much as he loved the rough strength of Deckard's hands when they pushed him down onto his back. 

There was something starved about the way Deckard kept kissing him, the same kind of pent up hunger that Owen himself felt, after years of denying themselves what they really wanted. Deckard's hands were as efficient as ever in getting Owen out of his tshirt, and after holding back for so long he seemed impatient now, hands barely stopping as they brushed over Owen's hipbones before they pulled his boxers down.

Owen bit back a groan when the fabric slid over his cock, but he couldn't stay quiet when Deckard pressed closer, the rough fabric of his trousers scratching over sensitive skin.

“Fuck,” he gasped, and because he didn't want Deckard to gain too much of an upper hand he reached between them and cupped Deckard's cock through his trousers. “Are you going to take those off?”

“Later,” Deckard just said, sounding too collected still for Owen's taste. His left hand stayed on Owen's hip, thumb digging into his flesh as if he wanted nothing more than to bruise – and knowing his brother, he wanted just that. His other hand found its way quickly to Owen's arse, only bothering with the most cursory grope before dry fingertips brushed against Owen's hole – a light, teasing touch that contrasted with the heaviness of his other hand.

Owen supposed that some nervousness would have been normal at this point, but he could barely even remember the last time he'd been nervous about anything. This had always been what he was in for – he knew, after all, what Deckard like to do, and it had become part of Owen's fantasies the way everything else about Deckard had. It was less about the act itself than about wanting Deckard with all that entailed, with all that his brother would want to do to him.

As if he'd read his mind, Deckard growled, “You ever let anyone fuck you?”

His fingers continued to tease Owen, a tenderness that felt more mocking than anything else, and his lips brushed against the reddened, over-sensitised skin of Owen's throat. 

Owen was so distracted by his brother's closeness that he almost told him the truth: that he'd considered sleeping with men out of curiosity, but never truly wanted to. It would have felt too close to what he truly wanted to be anything but disappointing. Women he could enjoy without having to draw any unfavourable comparisons, but all any other man ever could have been to him was _not Deckard_.

But the tightly controlled anger in Deckard's voice was too inviting an offer to refuse, not when the possessiveness of his hands was almost enough to make Owen lose it. Deckard's stubble felt like sandpaper against his throat, and Owen smiled against his temple.

“You don't really believe that I spent my whole life waiting for you to get over yourself and take what you want, do you?” The words came out clear, firm, just a tad derisive – Owen had always prided himself on being an excellent liar.

He turned his head just in time to see the anger in Deckard's eyes, irrational and possessive and all the more appealing from a man who never truly lost his temper. It was almost a bit surprising how easy it was to goad his brother, easy enough that Owen wondered if he shouldn't have tried something like this much earlier. 

Deckard's fingers dug harshly into Owen's shoulder and hip, grabbed him hard and flipped him over as if he weighed nothing. The breath was knocked out of Owen's lungs when Deckard pushed his elbow into his back to keep him down, his stubble rasping again over Owen's neck. Owen struggled a bit against him when Deckard's knees pushed his legs apart, just enough to force Deckard to put a little bit more effort into it. There was a certain thrill in feeling Deckard's strength, in being with someone who could easily break him, while knowing that nothing in the world could have actually made Deckard hurt him.

Owen glanced back over his shoulder, not wanting to miss a single moment of this, and so he wasn't surprised when Deckard grabbed his chin hard and forced his mouth open, shoved two fingers in so fast that Owen had to gag against them. He still considered licking them, then realised that it didn't seem to be what Deckard wanted. He simply kept his hand there, let Owen gag around his fingers and gasp for breath. He wasn't pushing Owen down anymore so Owen could half turn and look up at him, and even as he felt dizzy from the lack of air he didn't miss the smirk on Deckard's face.

Owen played along for a minute or two before he grabbed Deckard's wrist, held on tight, and then bit his fingers so hard that Deckard withdrew with a pained hiss. Deckard still barely missed a beat before he slapped Owen with his other hand, a sharp sting against his cheek just as Owen was about to find his breath again. He couldn't remember in that moment if Deckard had ever _slapped_ rather than punched him before, but it was probably better that he hadn't because Owen couldn't help but moan.

“Stay down,” Deckard said, his hand moving from Owen's cheek to the back of his neck to press him down onto the bed, and Owen didn't mind letting him for now. He felt the mattress shift as Deckard moved back between his legs, one hand still on the back of his neck while the other slid down to Owen's arse.

Owen shuddered when Deckard pushed in his spit-slick fingers without any more teasing, the intrusion more uncomfortable than painful. For a moment he considered letting Deckard get on with it – he did like his brother's roughness, enjoyed every pang of pain from his hands far more than he would have thought possible before. But there were limits to the amount of discomfort he still considered enjoyable, and he had a feeling this would go beyond that.

So he reached back to grab Deckard's wrist again, gave him a slightly exasperated look over his shoulder.

“Don't be a brute, D.” He elbowed Deckard into the ribs to make him pull back, which gave him enough space to reach over and fish out the small bottle of lube he kept by his bed. The look on Deckard's face couldn't be described as anything but thunderous, and Owen didn't mind letting him believe that he kept it there for when he had company, not simply because he preferred the additional slickness when he jerked off. Despite his glaring Deckard snatched the bottle from his hand, never took his eyes off Owen when Owen rolled over onto his back so he could look up at him properly.

“Didn't think you were so damn sensitive,” Deckard said and smacked Owen's thigh so hard Owen could feel the warmth spread through his flesh. Owen covered Deckard's hand with his to keep it where it was, groaned again when Deckard dug his fingertips into the reddened skin.

“You'll get to tease me about that when you're the one taking it up the arse – unless you'd rather do it that way?” 

Deckard only snorted in reply, not that Owen had expected any other reaction. He kept massaging Owen's thigh, spread his legs again easily. It would be less comfortable like this, Owen was aware, but he didn't want to keep his hands nor his eyes off his brother, so before Deckard could get it in his head to flip him over again, he went on, “You wouldn't want me forgetting it's you fucking me this time, right?”

That earned him another hard smack against his thigh, followed by the briefest laugh. Just because Deckard could be easy to goad at times didn't mean he wasn't aware of what Owen was doing.

“You could just ask me to hit you again if you like it that much,” he said.

Owen merely shrugged and propped himself up on his elbows to get a better look at him, his eyes raking over Deckard's chest and shoulders, then following his hands when his brother finally unbuttoned his trousers. He didn't bother to take them off, just got his cock out and slicked it up quickly, not teasing himself half as much as he would have teased Owen. Maybe it was a remainder of the old hero worship he'd felt for his brother when he'd been a boy, but somehow he had always expected Deckard to be bigger than him. He wasn't disappointed, though, if anything he felt strangely pleased that there was at least one area in which they looked quite similar. 

“You wanna keep staring?” Deckard interrupted his thoughts, and it was only his mocking grin that made Owen realise that he had, in fact, been staring. 

“Not really, no.” Owen hooked one leg around Deckard's hip to try and pull him closer, both his hands went for his brother's shoulders. “Come here,” he said, and like earlier that night Deckard didn't have to be asked twice.

He wasn't tender about it, and the iron grip he kept on Owen's thigh felt more like possessiveness than anything else, but he still took his time pushing into Owen, like he wanted to savour finally getting what he should have had so much earlier. His shoulder muscles were tense under Owen's fingers when Owen all but clung to him. It wasn't half as unpleasant as Owen would have expected, unfamiliar, but every bit as welcome as Deckard's hands around his throat had been. Deckard groaned softly once he was all the way inside him, stilled for only a moment before Owen pushed back against him impatiently. He'd grabbed the back of Deckard's neck again to pull him down, fingernails leaving marks on his skin. 

“Don't even think about making me beg for it,” Owen gasped against Deckard's cheek, and he shuddered when he felt more than heard his brother laugh. Deckard raised one hand to Owen's chest as if he had to keep him down, a heavy touch that slowly slid up until it covered Owen's throat again.

“Don't worry.” His stubble rasped over Owen's cheek and against his earlobe before he nipped at it, the words accompanied by a sharp, deep thrust that made Owen moan. Deckard's voice had dropped lower than usual, sounded as rough as his beard felt against Owen's skin. “You could beg me to stop and I wouldn't.”

Owen's eyes fluttered shut even as his whole body seemed to tense up, legs tightening around Deckard, fingers digging into his neck, and Deckard finally stopped holding back. In the silence of the room Owen's moans sounded far too loud to his own ears when Deckard thrust into him again, so hard and fast that it somehow felt deeper than before. The moment Owen loosened his grip on Deckard's neck, his brother straightened up a little, and Owen realised when he opened his eyes that all Deckard had needed was a better angle to grab his throat again.

Their eyes met just as Owen drew in his last unhindered breath, and although Deckard had the good sense not to put his entire weight into it, there was still something far less controlled about the way his fingers tightened around Owen's throat, his other hand still bruising up Owen's hip to keep him in place while he fucked into him. Owen fought for air and lost, and this time he found himself writhing underneath Deckard instead of holding still, tightening around his cock, and he was close to blacking out when Deckard let him breathe again.

Instead he kissed Deckard, bit his lip hard enough to elicit a muffled groan from him when his brother had been almost frustratingly quiet so far, a groan and another hard thrust that made Owen feel like he was tumbling towards the edge, still unsure whether he'd pass out or come first. Deckard's hand hadn't left his throat, but his touch was more a threatening reminder now than anything else, his thumb pressed into the hollow underneath Owen's chin, keeping his throat bared so he could kiss it. And although Deckard never truly got loud, Owen had never seen him as impatient and unrestrained as this, as if all his self-control had finally been used up.

The tip of Owen's cock slid over Deckard's abs with every thrust, the touch far from firm enough to make him come under any other circumstances, but as it was it didn't take much more after that than a few hard thrusts and Deckard's teeth scratching over Owen's throat, exerting just enough pressure to make Owen's breath catch in his throat.

His moans sounded pathetically hoarse to his own ears, loud enough that he didn't catch whatever his brother mumbled against his throat, only that Deckard's voice was shaking as much as his own. His back was slick with sweat under Owen's fingers, his thrusts had become shallow and fast, and a small shudder seemed to go through his entire body when he came. He didn't still immediately, but kept rocking into Owen like he didn't want to pull back just yet, and although it was almost too much, Owen had no intention of pushing him away.

When Deckard did pull out and rolled off him, Owen shivered a little, sweat and come cooling quickly on his skin in a room that hadn't been warm to begin with without his brother's heat against him. There was a pleasant soreness in his legs when he stretched them out, and his skin felt a little ticklish where his brother's come ran over his thighs.

The air was almost too still between them, or maybe it was just that Deckard didn't move next to him, just lay there in the half-dark, his broad chest rising and falling quickly, quiet like he'd woken up from some sort of dream.

Owen couldn't bring himself to move at first, his limbs heavy with exhaustion and post-coital contentment, but finally he rolled over onto his side. He settled against Deckard and placed a hand on his chest, right next to an old scar from a wound that had almost cost Deckard his life, back when he'd been only twenty-three, a year before Owen enlisted himself. The wound had already been half healed by the time Deckard had been allowed to come home, and for a week Owen had slept with his head pressed against Deckard's chest, listening to his heartbeat while his hand covered the bandage. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, and at the same time Owen wasn't sure that anything had truly changed between them since then. They had simply stopped pretending.

For several minutes they were both quiet, listening to each other's breathing slowing down. 

“I lied, you know?” Owen said finally when he realised that Deckard, taciturn as always, wouldn't break the silence. He looked up into his brother's eyes, saw the slight frown forming on his face. “About letting other men fuck me.” Owen laughed softly; after tonight the thought of letting anyone else do that to him felt even more absurd than it ever had before. “You would have killed them if I had.”

The thought made him smile – he'd been close to trying it out, at times, fucking a man just to see if Deckard would somehow find out, if he'd care, or if he'd just sneer the way he sneered about the women Owen fucked. It had been the most appealing thing about the whole idea, but for all that he didn't like to admit it, he'd been afraid of the possibility that Deckard wouldn't actually have minded, of the rejection that would have implied. It was the same fear that had kept him for so long from simply telling Deckard what he wanted.

“I thought that would have added to the appeal,” Deckard said after a moment's silence. He turned a little to look at Owen, then ran his fingertips over Owen's cheek. His touch was gentler than before, and Owen was almost sure he saw something like relief in his brother's eyes. “What did you lie for?”

“I wanted to see if you'd be jealous,” Owen replied and shrugged. It seemed an obvious reason given that his brother's jealousy was such a delicious thing, but Deckard shot him an irritated look. Sat up, out of reach of Owen's hands, and started unlacing his boots. It was the opposite of what a man would do if he were about to leave, and Owen figured that he just wanted to keep his hands busy. Still, he hated the thought of Deckard pulling away from him, so he sat up as well, and Deckard didn't flinch when Owen ran his fingertips along his spine. He'd always loved his brother's back, the undefeatable strength in his muscles, the thin white lines of old scars his fingers found easily even though his eyes couldn't make them out in the dim light.

“I did always like the thought of you killing any man who put his hands on what should be yours,” he said against Deckard's neck, the words slightly muffled, and he could already feel some of the tension seeping out of Deckard's body. “I was actually quite close to trying it out, when I knew you were in town, when I knew you'd come looking for me. I always wondered what you'd do if you found me in bed with another man.” He paused, let his fingers ghost over Deckard's sides and his lips brush against the shell of his ear. “Would you have killed him?”

Deckard seemed to think about that for a moment, let his second boot thump to the floor and slipped out of his remaining clothes.

“Maybe.” He leant back against Owen, the buzzed hair at the back of his neck rasping over Owen's shoulder. “Probably.”

“My loss then,” Owen said. He kept kissing Deckard's neck, licked a drop of sweat off his skin. It would have felt like soothing a wild animal, except there was no anger left in Deckard now, as if he'd vented all of that already. He was quiet for a minute, and his voice was much softer when he added, “But the truth is, I wasn't going to make do with any man who wasn't you.”

There was more vulnerability in those words than in spreading his legs or baring his throat, in letting his brother fuck or choke him. For a moment Deckard was quiet, still as a statue, but then he turned around. His hand found Owen's throat in a gentler imitation of his previous touches, his forehead leant against Owen's. There was definitely relief now in the way his shoulders sagged a little, and Owen couldn't really blame him for that. It wasn't as if he wouldn't have loved the idea that Deckard hadn't fucked any other man before him, but since, to his knowledge, his brother _only_ fucked men, that had been a lost cause from the start.

A minute passed, or maybe two, or maybe just a few seconds that felt far longer while Deckard held him close. There was almost something more intimate in that touch than in anything he'd done until now, in the way his hand cradled Owen's throat, in the way he looked at Owen when Owen met his eyes. Deckard had never been a man of many words, certainly not of gentle ones, but then he'd never needed them with Owen.

Eventually he said, “You could've just told me to fuck you hard,” and Owen almost laughed when he realised that he'd been a fool to think that things would ever have been more complicated than that with Deckard – as if his brother would not have given him anything he ever wanted in a heartbeat.

“I wasn't going to pass up on a once in a lifetime chance, now was I?” Owen replied, smiling. He ran his fingertips over the familiar stubble on Deckard's head before his hand came to rest at the back of his neck again. Deckard had always liked that back when they'd been boys, and Owen had almost forgotten about it until a year ago when he'd unthinkingly stroked Deckard's neck after a mission had gone south and his brother had looked more exhausted than he'd ever seen him before. Deckard had still slotted himself into the touch like he had twenty years earlier, and Owen had loved the way his hand was actually big enough these days to cover more than only a fraction of his neck. 

He held on to him, kissed him again before he got a chance to reply. No less intense than before, but without that same impatience, without that fear that Deckard might pull back at any moment if Owen wasn't careful. He didn't need to be the only man Deckard had ever fucked to be sure that Deckard was his – after all his brother had been loyal to no one but him long before this night. They sank back into the sheets, Owen pressed tightly against his brother, one of Deckard's arms wrapped around him. Owen's fingertips slid over the scar on Deckard's chest, and he thought of all the nights he could have had him just like this if he'd only dared to ask.

“We should have done this much earlier,” he sighed eventually.

Deckard gave him a thoughtful look, then shrugged. “I wasn't sure you knew what you wanted.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Owen snorted. “I always knew what I wanted. You're the one who kept pulling back as if you were afraid.”

Deckard glared at him briefly before he averted his gaze. His fingers were still resting on Owen's upper arm, thumb rubbing small circles into his skin.

“I could have been wrong.” He drew in a deep breath, his chest rising under Owen's hand. His voice sounded too tight. “What then, hm?”

It was a legitimate question, but Owen could barely fathom not wanting his brother – wanting Deckard was so ingrained into who he was that he didn't know who he'd be without it. Nor could he imagine turning his back on him, not when Deckard was the only person in the world who'd ever been worth anything to him. But it wasn't as if he'd been any more daring than Deckard in pursuing what they both had wanted for so long, as if he hadn't shared those same vague fears of losing the only person he couldn't afford to lose, so he merely shrugged. It was too late now to change anything about the past, even though Owen couldn't help but resent both himself and Deckard for all those wasted opportunities over the years.

Deckard's breathing had almost returned to normal; he looked as calm as he ever did, but he still smelt of sweat and both their come, smelt more strongly of Owen than he ever had after their fights. Owen curled his finger into Deckard's hip, just below those perfectly defined muscles, where his skin was already starting to bruise from Owen's grip earlier. Owen had no doubts that his brother had left more than a few marks on his body as well, and he was pleased that went both ways.

“Are you staying?” he asked after a while, as if this was just like any other night – a shared bottle of wine in the privacy of Owen's room, a bit of catching up, calm conversations about upcoming jobs.

“I don't have anywhere else to be,” Deckard said. He met Owen's eyes for longer than he had since he'd fucked him. His hand was back on Owen's throat, pulled him closer until he could kiss him again, and he was no less possessive now for all that he knew that there was no one else to reclaim Owen from. Owen smiled against his lips.

“Good.” He bit Deckard's bottom lip, teeth holding on to it just long enough to force a groan from his brother's lips. “Once I'm done with this job … we should take some time off. A week, maybe two. So don't go anywhere.”

“Or what, you'll hunt me down?” Deckard all but smirked at him. “Now that'd be fun.”

“We can keep that in mind for next time.” Owen chuckled and shook his head; they both knew fully well that even Owen wouldn't be able to find Deckard if he didn't want to be found. He sat up slowly, felt Deckard's eyes on him when he stretched a little, before he looked down at himself.

“I need a shower.” He looked at his brother, then ran his fingertips through the cooling mess on Deckard's abs. “So do you, for that matter.” 

“I don't mind if you go first,” Deckard said with the smallest shrug, and he really didn't look like he was planning to get up any time soon. He had a relaxed laziness about him that Owen had never seen from him even after the most exhausting fight.

“I'd rather you came along.” Owen brushed his knuckles over Deckard's softened cock before he cupped his balls gently, smiled at the pleased sigh that left his brother's lips. Rationally he didn't doubt that he could touch his brother again any time he liked – neither of them was much for regrets, for changing their mind after the fact – but an irrational part of him, the angry boy in him who had always hated letting his brother leave, didn't feel like taking his hands off Deckard now that he was finally his to touch. And he didn't much care if Deckard was indulging him or if he was equally reluctant to let him go, as long as he got what he wanted. 

For a few moments Deckard didn't move under Owen's hands, but then he sat up, one possessive hand finding its way to Owen's hip again and squeezing briefly. He kissed Owen's shoulder before getting up from the bed, and for a moment Owen could do nothing but watch the perfect shifting and tensing of his muscles, thinking about all the places he wanted to leave bruises and bite marks, and where exactly he'd get started on that tonight.

Deckard briefly glanced back at him over his shoulder, and there was such a simple familiarity in that look that Owen truly wondered what had taken them so long. Maybe the long wait had made him appreciate this more, and yet he should have known better. There were two things that had held true his whole life: he always got what he wanted, and if he couldn't make sure of that himself, Deckard would.


End file.
